Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
TearsAnonymous
W
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven’s sun doth gently waste.
But my sun’s heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.
A rest that peace begets;
Doth not the sun rise smiling
When fair at eve he sets?
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.